


If the Sky Comes Falling Down for You

by five_of_five



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, I don't know if I need to warn for that but I feel like I should, I had Cassandra feelings and this is where I put them, Minor Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, POV Second Person, spoilers for Episode 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_of_five/pseuds/five_of_five
Summary: You’re young. Four years old, later you will remember this age and time because it was the first year you were allowed to go to the Winter’s Crest Festival in town with the rest of your family. You look about the town square and feel overwhelmed by the crush of people, the lights and the noise. You see a small child not much older than you are clinging to his mother’s skirts and you reach for your own mother gliding at your side. Small hands snag cold fingers and soft fabric in a frantic tangle, you feel the catch of her rings as she jerks her hands, a quick motion stilled.Or - Not Every Family Hugs: A Cassandra de Rolo Story.





	If the Sky Comes Falling Down for You

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Hey Brother” by Avicii
> 
> This started because I saw a bunch of people demanding that Percy give Cassandra a hug after episode 101 and while I understand the instinct, as someone who comes from a family where we don’t…touch, I felt a need to explore why maybe a hug isn’t what Cassandra needed. I’m not entirely sure what this became.

You’re young. Four years old, later you will remember this age and time because it was the first year you were allowed to go to the Winter’s Crest Festival in town with the rest of your family. You look about the town square and feel overwhelmed by the crush of people, the lights and the noise. You see a small child not much older than you are clinging to his mother’s skirts and you reach for your own mother gliding at your side. Small hands snag cold fingers and soft fabric in a frantic tangle, you feel the catch of her rings as she jerks her hands, a quick motion stilled.

“Mamma?” You say, looking up at her questioningly.

“These are our people, Cassandra,” she says slowing to a stop. “You have nothing to fear.”

She squeezes your hand and nods to Vesper, standing a few steps behind her. Vesper comes up and takes you from her.

Mother and Father tour every booth, Julius by their side, stopping to talk with each citizen. The rest of your siblings scatter in groups of two to take in the various attractions, Vesper never leaves your side. Her warm hand resting lightly on your shoulder; steering you to the magician’s tent, away from the juggler when it’s time for the mid-day meal, clutching hard as she doubles over laughing at Oliver and Whitney in the pie eating contest, rubbing in soft circles as she carries you home.

You’re still young, but growing older. Seven years old and you feel the rush of wind before pain steals your breath. The ground is warm, soft and springy beneath you, the Sun Tree stands tall like a sentinel, its branches swaying in the warm summer breeze. Slightly fewer branches than there should be, several having accompanied you on your downward journey. You turn your head to the left and see a small broken branch.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Cass!” Someone is yelling. “Oh gods, Cassandra!” Julius slides to your side on his knees, his face a white mask.

“Sorry,” you say again, swallowing thickly.

“Can you move?” Julius asks, his hands hovering uncertainly.

“Yes, but it hurts,” you point with your right hand to your left arm, broken like a branch.

“Is that the only place it hurts?” He looks more like Julius now, face impassive but his eyes are still big.

“I think so,” you wiggle your legs when he asks you to and watch him close his eyes in relief.

“Where are Oliver and Whitney?”

“They went to get Keeper Yennen.”

“And where were they when you decided to climb the Sun Tree?”

“Um…” You’re saved from answering by the pounding of footsteps, Oliver pushing past the few townspeople who loiter nearby.

“Chin up Cass, Keeper’s almost here- Oh.” His face falls and his spine straightens when he sees Julius. “It was my fault, I encouraged them.” He answers the unspoken question.

Moments pass in silence between your brothers before Keeper Yennen shuffles up the path, Whitney at his arm. She stutters to a stop.

“I’m to blame, I dared her to do it,” Whitney lifts her chin and steps beside Oliver, the two of them awaiting judgement.

Your view of your siblings is blocked by Keeper Yennen as he leans over you, his hand hot on your arm the other clutching his holy symbol tightly as he mutters words of prayer under his breath. You feel the heat from his hand flow through the rest of your arm and a muffled jolt as the bone snaps back, as though your arm is encased in wool but tingling all over.

“You should be alright now my Lady,” Keeper Yennen smiles down at you, patting your formerly injured hand a bit awkwardly. Whatever confrontation was happening between Julius and the twins seems to be over, Whitney helps the Keeper up, she and Oliver insist on walking him back to the Temple.

Julius picks you up and sets you on your feet.

“How are you feeling little one?”

“Better,” you swing your arm back and forth. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“Causing so much trouble.” You hear him sigh as he kneels in front of you.

“Look at me Cassandra,” you do, “you shouldn’t have climbed the Sun Tree without proper supervision. Rules are in place for your safety and for the safety of others, however I think you learned that lesson the hard way today,” he chucks you under your chin. “One lesson you still need to learn though, is that family is never any trouble. You are never any trouble.”

Later when Father asks how it came to be that you fell out of the Sun Tree you, Oliver, and Whitney all step forward but Julius speaks over you all.

“I am responsible, Father,” he says shoulders firmly set. “I was supposed to be watching over the children but I abandoned my duty when I met a friend in the Square.”

You’re growing older, but still young. Nine years old and always going to be the youngest. The injustice hits you suddenly and at odd moments, over diner, during lessons with Professor Anders, the latest is during a game of hide-and-seek with Ludwig.

It’s been raining for three days, a sign of the changing seasons in Whitestone, and you have been confined to the castle and nearby grounds. Your older brothers and sisters are allowed to leave, should they wish it, although they rarely do, such liberty waisted on them. You feel the sting afresh as you halfheartedly search the music room.

Even Ludwig, barely a year older than you are, may go to town and back without a chaperone. As though turning ten has imbued him with special properties that a mere nine-year-old cannot fathom. It was not so bad when on rainy days you were both trapped inside, but now because of the separation of thirteen months you can at any moment be abandoned.

It strikes you that you will always be running after them, you will always be chasing and never able to catch up. It is an insurmountable distance of time. A gap that cannot bridged by determination.

You find Ludwig in the kitchen, hiding in a cupboard with a half-eaten strawberry tart in one hand.

“Guess that means I’m ‘it’, then?” He asks after swallowing a mouthful.

“I don’t think I want to play this game anymore,” you reply, picking off a bit of strawberry and eating it.

“Do you want to play cards instead?”

You shrug, sitting on the floor in front of the cupboard.

“I know it’s no fun being stuck inside all the time,” Ludwig leans forward, wrapping his arms around his legs. “But if you’re stuck then I’m stuck too, it’s only thirteen months.”

You look up at him surprised, “how did-?”

“It’s been raining for three days, Cass, did you really think I enjoyed stuffing myself into luggage trunks so much I couldn’t bear to leave?”

“Well,” you pause considering. Reordering the last several days in your mind. Ludwig’s constant company, Julian’s kind smiles, Vesper’s winks, the toy Percy made you, Oliver and Whitney pulling you into game after game, all staying nearby whenever duty allowed. “Well,” you try again swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat. “You are very strange. After all, you take your lunch in the cupboard.”

“Hey,” Ludwig knocks your arm with his knee. “See if I ever say anything nice to you again.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, bumping his knee in return.

“Come on, Cass-er-ole, let’s go touch things in Percy’s workshop until something explodes or he does.”

You’re older, no longer young. Twelve years old and not a child anymore. This is the last time you will feel your mother’s arms around you. She holds you close for just a moment, her arms stiff and unfamiliar around your shoulders, squeezing tightly before ordering you to run. She once told you that you had nothing to fear, you know now that isn’t true. The lingering press of her embrace has you more terrified than the clash of steel or the screams of the dying coming from outside the castle.

No. Inside the castle. All around.

Everywhere.

You hide. You’re good at hiding. No one finds you, but you know they’re looking, you hear pieces of conversations as heavy-booted feet walk past your sanctuary. They speak of the Briarwoods, the couple who came to stay with your family. They speak of making sure all the de Rolos are out of the way, you don’t know if your brothers or sisters have evaded capture as well. They speak of promised riches, great rewards, and something about a Whispered One.

You stay hidden, you don’t know how long, days lose meaning. You search the faces of the dead littering the halls but don’t find your family. Finally, how long has it been, you hear one of the mercenaries talk about a living de Rolo.

“Ripley really seems to have taken a shine to that one,” he laughs and you want to scream.

“How much more do you think the lad can take?”

“Does it matter, she’ll get what she wants out of him,” their voices fade as they continue their patrol.

It’s enough. Someone else is alive.

You make your way down to the lower levels of the castle, the dungeons aren’t extensive, anyone alive should be easy enough to find. The trouble will be staying hidden.

You wait until the guards change shifts, sneaking into the dungeon and snagging the keys off the table. You rush into an empty cell and stop breathing, will your heart to stop beating so loudly, and wait to be discovered. Instead the guard curses and goes after his comrade to retrieve the keys he believes the man to have taken with him.

Not much time, quickly, quickly, you run down the halls scanning the cells until-

Percy.

Percy is still alive, half-starved and bloody, but breathing.

Not making a sound you open his door and rush to his side, he whimpers as you approach and you would kill this Ripley if you could.

“Percy,” you breathe.

“Cass?” He looks up at you puzzled. Afraid. Eyes wide. “No, no, no, if you’re here it means she can hurt you- “

“Percy, it’s okay,” you whisper pointing to the open cell door. “We’re going to get out of here.” You help him to his feet, touching him as little as possible, every inch of his body looks like it hurts. You peer out the door and nod back to him that the way is clear.

You both walk as quietly as possible down the hall until you reach the secret tunnel exit, he helps you shift the door and then you run, you both run. Percy grabs your hand and you’re running and this is going to work.

You emerge into a snowy evening, the night lit by a bright moon. You both laugh a little to each other, breathe deeply and keep running. You look back towards the castle and you can see movement. You couldn’t hear their footsteps over the sound of you and Percy running, your heavy breaths and the pounding of your heart. You’re being chased.

“Percy!” You cry out, gesturing behind you with your free hand.

He looks back, curses and picks up speed. He’s dragging you now, your shorter legs struggling to keep up.

“Cass, the river, it’s just ahead,” Percy cries dropping your hand to point.

You open your mouth to reply, but there’s no breath. You stumble forward another step and another.

Pain.

You fall to your knees as another arrow sinks into your back.

You look up at Percy. You want to tell him to run. You want to beg him to stay.

It doesn’t matter what you want, he’s gone. And so are you.

You’re the oldest. Twelve years old and you don’t know if you’ll live to see thirteen. You don’t know if you want to live. Your family is dead. You’re the last of the de Rolos, the oldest child at last.

You hate it.

You heal from your wounds. You lead a rebellion. You fail.

You’re a prisoner.

You’re a Briarwood.

No.

You’re a de Rolo.

You’re grownup. You left youth in the past. Eighteen years old and you have a brother again. It’s…strange. Good strange, but it still takes some getting used to, he still takes some getting used to. Also, his friends.

He dies more often than you’re entirely comfortable with and the world is full of dragons, that he slays with the help of his companions, and Percy has a very important duty to the world. Your duty is to Whitestone.

Percy and Vox Machina freed Whitestone, you killed Delilah Briarwood. Now they live here on a semi-permanent basis and you are getting used to the sounds of people again. There’s music, twins arguing, priceless antiques being broken, you don’t wonder why Percy found a home with them. The castle feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years, you feel alive in a way you haven’t in years.

You’re still alive, still growing. It’s okay to be young sometimes. Nineteen years old and the weight of the world does not rest on your shoulders alone. Percy has been helping with the ruling of Whitestone. It’s a responsibility neither of you were prepared for but which together you may not screw up entirely.

Nineteen and you have a sister again. Neither of them have said anything to you, but you aren’t blind and he gave her a title, Pelor bless. You see the man your brother has become since being with her and you see the man he tries to be in her eyes. You didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.

The world comes crashing down with a few words and a cup of tea.

“We found a second ziggurat,” the dread begins curling in your stomach. “We found a cult, that is moving things through it,” images of the spinning orb that rests in the hidden temple beneath your castle flash through your mind. Flashes of experiments, objects thrown into the orb only to vanish, transported to some unknown location. “The cult was being led by Delilah Briarwood.”

Your teacup slips from your grasp, shattering across the floor.

Delilah Briarwood. The woman who slaughtered your family for the secret hidden beneath your home.

Delilah Briarwood. The woman who, along with her husband, held you prisoner for years, warping your mind, turning you against all that you once held dear.

Delilah Briarwood. The woman you killed.

Percy’s still talking, you can hear him talking, a low drone of reassurance and concern.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he meets your eyes. You find traces of guilt still lingering there, but he no longer drowns in it. “There will be no running this time.”

“No running,” you repeat back, an echo of “led by Delilah Briarwood” ringing in your ears.

Percy will end her, he swears it, he will destroy her. You come the closest you’ve come to begging since those first nights you spent with the Briarwoods. Vox Machina has destroyed ancient dragons, you allow yourself to be the little sister and ask Percy to slay the monster from your nightmares.

‘Led by Delilah Briarwood.’

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you warn Percy so he knows to leave. He nods in understanding, as soon he opens your door he’s accosted by Keyleth. Percy shuts the door quickly and it doesn’t take long for the voices to begin to fade.

As soon as the door closes you rush to the washroom and begin to retch.

‘Led by Delilah Briarwood.”

You rinse your mouth, spitting out the bile and the fear.

‘There will be no running this time.’

A promise.

“No running.”


End file.
